


aligned but never crossing

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst, Death, F/M, maybe shipping? if anyone wants it idk just ask
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21567946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Among ourselves we’d have a pact that if one of us were to die, he’d come back and let the others know if there was another side. So as Stuart was the first one to go, we did half expect him to show up. Any pans that rattled in the night could be him.” —Paul McCartney, the Beatles AnthologyBasically, a ghost!Stuart semi-AU. Not sure where to take this though, or if I’ll even complete it! But if there’s demand, I’ll see to it that it gets finished. :)
Relationships: Stuart Sutcliffe/Astrid Kirchherr
Comments: 20
Kudos: 19





	1. today’s the first day of the rest of your... death

He could have sworn that it was spring already.

Why does he feel so cold?

Stu screws his eyes shut and instinctively curls up where he lies, trying to conserve his heat. There’s a blinding light stabbing all over his body and it wouldn’t take any doctor’s expert testimony to say that he is not the biggest fan of it right now. He was always inclined to the darkness, a natural night owl as well as a brooding artist type, but for the past few months, light has not only been disdainful but excruciating and even the slightest hints of it would chomp away at his fracturing sanity. The oncoming summer is going to be a hell tailored specifically to him.

When it becomes apparent that the light isn’t going away, Stuart reluctantly collects his bearings and sits up, and when the palms of his hands hit concrete, he realizes he’s on pavement, next to a road on which an ambulance speeds off in the distance; he barely catches notice of it before it disappears into the rows and rows of city buildings. He blinks and rubs the blur his eyes. Whoever’s in that thing on such an otherwise pleasant day must be one unlucky fellow.

How did he end up over here? He has no recollection of winding up so far from home. It’s a bit of a ways from the Altona neighborhood, somewhat unfamiliar to him but not so much that he wouldn’t know his way back. There’s no reason he’d usually go this way. Perhaps he had done something like sleepwalking, or maybe he suffered a bout of memory loss. His mind hasn’t been especially lucid these days, he acknowledges ashamedly, and it’s not out of the question that he’s just going insane.

His surroundings are also somewhat hazy, and not in the same way they usually are for a nearsighted person without glasses. His vision is fuzzy and seems to shift and wriggle uncomfortably in a way that makes him feel a little nauseous. He’s got to get out of here.

Stu slowly staggers to his feet, one hand shielding his eyes and the other wrapped around his abdomen. The sun is awake and the clouds are asleep but it’s so cold and he’s not sure if he really understands why. More surprising, he realizes, is the feeling his head. The sharp and stabbing pains that have plagued him for months on end without relief have subsided into a dull, distant ache. If he had been healthy he’d surely have complained, but at this point he’s desperate for any refuge he could get. He offers a silent prayer of thanks to nobody in particular.

And with that, Stuart starts making his way back home. The streets are fairly barren and the people he does pass pay him no mind. He imagines that he might look somewhat drunk, with his disheveled clothes and hair and his stagger and his posture. It’s an undignified look to maintain, especially in a nice area like this, and so early in the evening too. Perhaps they’re avoiding looking in his direction so as to not stir up trouble with him. 

Eventually he finds Astrid’s house. The door is left slightly ajar; he frowns and closes it behind him as he enters and heads upstairs. To his relief, the fuzzy vision has receded, but the house is empty... Astrid is probably still at work, but he’s not sure where her mother might be. In any case, he’s sure he needs to get his bearings in himself, so he goes to the washroom, and...

...

That can’t be right.

Is it possible for a mirror to... stop working?

Cliche line aside, Stuart worriedly presses both his palms against the pane, searching it for any sign of his own reflection, to no avail. It’s gone. 

After another five minutes of running around the house for other mirrors, checking each one only to find the same result, he limps to his attic room with much dismay and plops down onto his workstool. To his knowledge, only vampires don’t show up in mirrors... and he had been walking through the afternoon sunlight just fine, so it ruled that possibility out. Though he still feels cold. It’s especially noticeable because in the days before, he had been battling with a nasty fever and felt as if he was constantly burning up.

In the coming hours, Stu appeases his nerves by returning to his works, as he had been doing earlier in the day. It’s strange that he had left all his tools on the floor before he blacked out... maybe he had fainted. The palette was, much to his chagrin, left on the floor face-down. Not that this place could possibly get any more coated in paint, but all the colors he was working with are now muddled and partially lost to the floorboards. How could he be so careless? Though, it’s only a small setback; a true artist always pushes forward. He picks up the brush and births new colors. The canvases embrace him and encapsulate his entire mind and body, shielding from him the awareness of time’s relentless passage. 

He’s brought out of his trance several hours later when he hears the downstairs door creak open: Astrid’s home! But it’s so late, he notices, as outside the window a pitch black has settled over the city. Much later than usual for her to return from work. He sets down his tools and slinks downstairs in search of her.

“Astrid!” He calls out warmly as she appears at the other end of the hall. She doesn’t respond and instead continues dragging herself in the direction of her room. Stu frowns. “Astrid?” He repeats, more tentatively this time. Still no response. Is she angry with him? He wouldn’t blame her. He’s been awfully difficult to deal with lately. Between the agonizing headaches and the insanity-induced tantrums and the medical bills, he’s sure he’s been a nightmare to look after, nowhere close to the mystifying and composed figure he had been when they first met. She keeps on walking and he clumsily jumps out of the way when she nearly runs straight into him. As they nearly cross, he catches the red in the corners of her eyes, the quivers at the edges of her lips. Her eyeliner, usually applied with a great deal of precision, is now smudged down her cheeks, dried in tear lines. Alarm sparks in Stuart’s throat. What happened? Was something wrong? Did  he do something wrong?

He watches as Astrid vanishes into her bedroom, then cautiously follows after her, lingering in the doorway. She idles at the side of the bed for only a moment before sinking to her knees and burying her face into the sheets. Stuart’s heart cracks open when he hears the first sob. Then the rest tumble forward and she’s a mess, she’s a shapeless mess screaming in pain and agony, maybe agony worse than anything Stuart has felt in the recent months.

No. She cannot be crying. He won’t allow it. Whatever is making her cry, he’ll kill it. His dearest little Astrid cannot be suffering. He has vowed to protect his queen with his life and he won’t—he can’t let this happen to her, whatever it is...

“Astrid?” His voice cracks, afraid and concerned and confused all at once. “Love, please, don’t cry, I’m sorry—whatever it is I’ve done, I’m sorry, I know I’ve been difficult, God—“ He steps forward; she doesn’t acknowledge him. “I promise I’m okay now! I feel better than I have in months. Bloody fantastic, even. I can go back to school, I’ll clean up after myself in the attic and everything, I just—“ 

He doesn’t want to think that she’s ignoring him. Why would she? He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand anything. He doesn’t know how why he had woken up on the side of the road miles away from home in the middle of the day. He doesn’t know why he’s so bloody fucking cold in the middle of spring. He doesn’t know why he can’t see his reflection in the mirror anymore. And he especially has no clue as to why the love of his life has just come home and started bawling her eyes out into the side of her bed. It’s going to drive him mad, all this confusion and not knowing—he steps closer so that he’s right behind her, and sends out an arm to rest on her trembling shoulder...

... and when his hand goes right through her body like the dissipating mist of mornings long gone, he finally understands.


	2. it’s not fair

Astrid and Klaus go to the airport the next day. Stuart was supposed to go with them, to reunite with the band. Well, he only ends up making it in spirit. Being a ghost has been bleak, but there’s the perks of being able to spice it up with some related jokes.

If he was heartbroken yesterday, today his heart got ground into a fine dust. 

John’s reaction is just as horrible as Astrid’s, if not worse. He sinks to his knees and screams like an animal. Nothing the others do can console him. He rocks back and forth, sputtering incoherently save only for when he wails Stuart’s name amongst his panicked breaths and sobs. Out of habit and of compassion, Stuart goes to wrap his arms around his friend, only to revisit the sensation he had yesterday, of his arms phasing uselessly through the body of the living. The only thing he can do now is share the freezing sensation in his body with everyone around him.

A few days later, a curious scene plays out in his former studio.

John and George slink upstairs, and Astrid follows with a camera that trembles in her grieving hands. Stuart watches, perched atop his stool. George comments on the coldness, and then no more words are exchanged between them for the time being. Astrid limps over to where Stuart is sitting and tugs the stool out from beneath him, then drags it over to the middle of the room. John sits down, his posture defeated, and George swoops in behind him and rests a hand on his shoulder.

Stuart knows what’s about to happen. It’s confirmed when Astrid positions the camera on the tripod and begins capturing their grief.

Her demands are unspoken and yet they obey. In this state, Stu is able to observe each figure up close without distressing them, aside from a little shiver. As an artist, he was used to being up close and intimate with his subjects. But this is different. Now he sees them; they do not see him back.

Here too, Stuart encounters a different side to his friends. John’s eyes are red; his eyelashes are clumped together with tears. He does not even fight or scream as he usually would when upset or agitated. He simply slumps in the seat, lost and forlorn. George, on the other hand, stands upright, almost protectively. It’s not like he was ever a vulnerable character, but he’s younger and perhaps more naive, at least it would appear. Now he’s stronger. There’s more to him than they give credit for, Stuart admits. He watches as George stands behind John now, in the scope of Astrid’s crying camera...

“I’m proud of you,” he says out loud, almost abruptly, before realizing that he couldn’t be heard. His words are lost to the floorboards. The photo session continues.

All the things he wanted to say, all the things he will ever want to say will never be heard by anyone ever again.

—

Stuart’s sure that many people have wondered what it would be like to attend their own funeral. Being the morbid sort of personality, he himself certainly has. 

He just never thought he’d actually do it.

After a few days of being dead, he discovered that he could “teleport” back and forth between Hamburg and Liverpool at will. The process behind it escapes him, and he hasn’t attempted to go anywhere else yet. This in itself is too much of a change in scenery, even for him. One thing at a time, Stu. One thing at a time.

Typically, he continues walking on solid ground. But if he so chooses, he can pass through walls and sink or float through floors, an action that sends shivers through his already freezing body. 

He also confirms what he had experienced earlier: he’s able to pass right through people, sometimes making them shudder a little when he does so. And try as he might, no noise he makes can be heard by the living either. He’s invisible to the eye and the ear.

There’s the thankfully useful ability of being able to interact with objects, but only within very specific areas, ones that he is familiar with, such as Astrid’s house. In places he did not frequent as often, his body simply phased through objects, as he discovered when wondering if he could use his new form to shoplift. It was worth a shot, at least.

It was strange when he went to a particularly busy square in Liverpool where many of the little shops were located and simply stood right there in the middle of the walkway, letting people stride right on through him without much of a second thought.

It’s almost unfair, he thinks. He had spent months spiraling through a great anguish, the only reward for his unending pain and suffering being the mercy of death. And everyone around him continues scurrying about, running their errands and returning home to their families and earning money to put dinner on the table every night. Life simply continues on for everyone. Everyone except him.

Astrid doesn’t go to the funeral. Neither do any of his bandmates; they’re back in Hamburg. The lucky bastards. The lucky  alive bastards. Well, Rod is here, and so is Cyn and his family, aside from his father, who is away at sea as usual. His mother is incredibly distraught and simply would not stop wailing throughout the whole procession. If the circumstances were not so dire, Stuart would maybe have scorned her for being so emotional and fussy, like she always was. It was incredibly annoying, the way she was always breathing down his throat. But now he watches from the side as she clings to the edge of the coffin, fingernails scraping the wooden finish, and the only feeling he could muster now is guilt. It’s not like it was his fault that he died, but surely... surely he could have treated her better when he was still alive. He was always dismissive of her, thinking her overprotective and controlling. Maybe if he had listened when she told him to get his health problems checked out, he’d still be alive. 

It’s too late now, in any case. The coffin has been shut and buried, both literally and figuratively. It’s strange knowing that his own body is in that box. And he’s still somewhat annoyed that they didn’t get him the one he wanted, the beautiful white one he saw in the undertaker’s window. It was prettiest one he had ever seen... though now that he thinks about it, he admits it’d probably be too big for him anyway. The tombstone they had made for him makes up for it anyway. It’s glossy and black and stands out in the cemetery he’s buried in. He spends several minutes there in the burial grounds after everyone has left, staring at his own grave. 

And for the first time since his actual death, Stuart is suddenly struck with a heavy weight of grief, like he just now realizes that he is in fact  dead and that there isn’t anything more he can do about it. He’s never going to finish art school. He’s never going to go on and become the famous artist everyone always told him he was going to be. He’s never going to get to marry Astrid or bear children with her. The only thing he is now is six feet underground and he’s going to be forgotten, and that’s that. All of his potential, all of his aspirations and hopes and dreams are all gone, just like that. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until the searing hot tears are stabbing through his cheeks. Stuart crumples to the ground with his fingers digging into the freshly arranged soil of his own grave, and the dirt below him is darkened with tear drops. And he knows that no matter how loudly he cries, nobody will hear him. He’s never felt so alone in his life.  _It’s not fair, it’s not fair,_ he sobs to himself, slamming his fist into the ground over and over again.  _It’s not fair._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> umm thanks to the people who commented + gave kudos, yall r amazing!!! i rlly didnt think anyone would be interested in this but u guys showed me up. chapter 3 is actually already done and it’ll be posted soon uwu.
> 
> also!!! please read hehe! i’m probably going to make it so that some of the characters will eventually figure out that ghost stu is there. but i don’t know who to start with! if you would please, vote in the comments below for which character should be the first to identify him.  
> —astrid  
> —john  
> —george  
> —paul  
> —klaus  
> —cynthia  
> —or anyone really!
> 
> thanks everyone!


	3. maybe you’re the mother i should have had all along

He must have fallen asleep at some point because he opens his eyes and realizes he’s curled up on top of the grave with his cheek pressed into the cold dirt, and the cemetery is dark around him, though with a gentle white shine coming from above. The moon is hiding behind a cluster of scraggly clouds, though... Stuart squints and rolls onto his back, and immediately he is graced with one of the most gentle presences he has ever felt.

She appears to be a slightly older woman with kind yet firm eyes accented by mild creases. Her hair is modest and dark and well-kept, and she retains a motherly expression as she kneels over him. She is adorned all in white and almost seems to glow. There is something familiar about her features, almost in a way that agitates him, but he can’t put his finger on it.

“Who are you?” Stuart’s voice is creaky from his crying fit, but he’s too exhausted to feel ashamed. “How can you see me?”

“I’m dead too,” she replies softly but straightforwardly. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Stuart. Though I am so very sorry that it ended up being so soon. You had so much ahead of you.”

A pang of grief rises again in his throat and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to rein the tears back. “You—you know who I am. Are you also a ghost? Have you been watching me?”

“I am somewhat a ghost, but not entirely in the same way as you. Part of my consciousness has already been permitted to move on, but not all the way. I suppose it is only a gradual process. For the most part, I reside elsewhere, but occasionally I can return to this realm. I only do so to look after my sons, since they were still young when I died. But through my son I have gotten to know his friends—and also his enemies. It’s such a shame that you two don’t get along. You’re a very sweet boy.”

For a long moment, Stuart stares at her, completely dumbfounded until it suddenly clicks. “Oh—Christ. I’m daft. You’re... You’re Paul’s mum. No wonder you looked so familiar... shite, how did I not figure—“

“ Language ,” She scolds him and Stuart obediently clamps his mouth shut, shrinking back in shame.

“I’m sorry,” he shrugs meekly. 

Then she smiles warmly and, without any prompting, gently pulls his head up onto her lap and starts brushing his dusty hair with her nimble fingers.

“I’m Mary McCartney. Charmed to meet you, Stuart. Do you have any questions? You must be so confused, you poor thing.”

Stuart doesn’t answer right away. He hadn’t realized how much he simply missed being touched. It’s one of the things in life that he had taken for granted, having a mother to look after him and groom him and keep him in order. Astrid and her mother fulfilled that role, but towards the end, as he got increasingly difficult to handle... well. It stopped mattering. He was too far off the deep end. “Why are you helping me anyway? Paul hates me.”

“I always liked you. You know, I was a nurse when I was alive. And you were always a sickly little thing. I’m sure I would have doted on you, at the risk of making my son jealous, I suppose. I’m sorry for the way he treated you. If it was within my ability, I’d have already reprimanded him.”

“It’s not like I’ve been the bigger person most of the time either,” Stuart admits sheepishly. “Hamburg was absolutely mad. We were losing our heads under tables over there. Everyone got antsy. I don’t blame him for always being cross with me. I just wish I could go back and say sorry for all the times I’ve been crass.”

Mary shakes her head. “I don’t know what happened in Hamburg. My realm is limited mostly to these city limits, places I’m familiar with. I can’t go any further. Going to unfamiliar places simply leaves me in a frustrating blur of colors and shapes that I can’t decipher at all. I’ve heard awful things about Hamburg, but I can’t go there and see for myself.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Stu remarks quickly. “And... that blur, it happened to me too...”

“It appears we are restricted to haunt only places we are familiar with. Stepping further and further away from our boundaries only causes the world around us to lose its form and meaning.”

“God damnit—“

“Language.”

“God—ugh. You know what I mean.” He sighs. “I’ve always dreamed about traveling the world one day, seeing the great sights... you know, Paris and Venice... and maybe even America. But no, now I’m going to be stuck in the same two dingy cities for the rest of my life. The rest of my... death, I mean. Forever.”

“Not forever. Just... until you move on.”

“Oh... I guess I’ve heard about that. In novels. I like to read. Or, I did when I was alive.”

“Try to think, Stuart. Is there any reason you feel like you should remain here on Earth instead of ascending? Unfinished business, perhaps? A deep thirst for revenge?”

Stuart furrows his brows. By now, Mary has finished combing his hair and is now simply stroking it gently. “I... I met a girl in Hamburg. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her name’s Astrid.”

“Was she the one that came here with you a few months ago?”

He nods in affirmation.

Mary purses her lips thoughtfully before going on. “She’s a very pretty and polite young lady. You two fit each other well. Shame your mother did not see it that way.”

A dull anger flares in the back of his mind. Of course. In the midst of lamenting about his relationship with his mother, he had completely forgotten his main grievance with her, and that was the way she felt about Astrid. That night when they had to flee from his own home because the situation had gotten too out of hand, Astrid had cried so very much, almost in the same way she did when he saw her grieving for him. Millie was just so fucking difficult with her and he couldn’t understand it. Mary seems to notice him tense up.

“You care about her very much, that girl. Again, I cannot leave this area, so my knowledge of her is limited. But I’m sure she misses you.”

“I miss her so much,” he whimpers softly. “It’s only been a few days...”

“It’s hard to know for sure, but I think you are still here because of your bond with her,” Mary explains. “I believe that you will remain in this state until she also passes on, so that you two may finally leave together. It’s such a beautiful thing, and yet so very very sad.”

There it is again, that grief. It comes in waves; whenever he thinks he’s stable enough to get up, another rises up and crushes up back down all over again. Astrid will have to spend the rest of her life mourning his loss. Or else, she will eventually find someone else and forget all about him. And if she chooses to leave the city, if that person whisks her away to a land unknown to his hands... 

He will never see her again.

“Hush now, my child,” her fingers soothe his flaring temples, lulling his grief with a mother’s discipline. “I will take care of you. But you must allow her to live. She must go on and live for the both of you, with both of your hearts and souls and wills. And when it is all over, you will embrace each other again and never ever let go.”

It pains him to think that he could be so selfish as to wish her to die so soon just so he could “move on”, as Mary said. Stuart wouldn’t want that for her. And he knows that Astrid wouldn’t want that for him, if she was in his place. He nods shakily in display of his understanding, and she smiles at him lovingly.

“Do you have any more questions?” she asks.

Stuart ponders this quietly for a moment, then looks up at her shyly. “Can I call you Auntie?”

A small giggle. “Of course, dear.”

For the first time since his death, he feels warm.


	4. the pact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback chapter. This one is from Paul’s perspective.

“‘m not sure if I even really believe in it all, y’know,” John mutters cheekily. “Going to heaven and all that.”

“Well, if there’s a heaven, there’s no way you’re headed that way son.” Stu’s voice is drawled out with the slight stir of alcohol.

It’s 1959 and the place is as lively as never. John and Stu have opened up their Gambier Terrace flat to the two younger members, and they’ve been coming round more often as a result.

This flat is shit messy. You can’t so much as step anywhere without landing in some garbage, even if you tip-toe. There’s piles of beer bottles and scraps of paper strewn about everywhere. There’d probably be food filth too, that is, if they ever even had anything to eat. A dead body could be hidden around here and they’d probably never even know it. 

Regardless, it’s home for now. Paul had to shove a lot of unidentifiable shit aside in order to make room for him and George to sit on the floor. He entertains the thought of cleaning up sometimes, just showing up and giving the whole place a long-overdue scrubbing, but the idea is abandoned as quickly as it comes. The others would probably tease him for it, being soft like a mother or maybe a housemaid. Anyway, the place accumulates dirt faster than it can be cleaned. Any effort to tidy up would be overridden by the following sunrise.

He wasn’t about to admit it, but the topic of death does unnerve Paul a little. He likes to think that his mother is up there somewhere, watching over him and his brother, but he’s aware that such speculations can be based on desires to not let go of those who have passed on... or perhaps even to give yourself hope for when your own time comes. He wonders if John has ever had thoughts about his own mother like that, but it didn’t seem appropriate to ask. There was a time when that would have been the case, but not while Stu is here...

Paul narrows his eyes. Of course, it was Stu that had brought up the topic in the first place. More pseudoexistentialist bullshit as always. John likes to make fun of it too, but everyone knows that he eats it right up. It’s an aspect of John that Stu is perfectly aligned with, but not Paul. Paul isn’t stupid; rather the opposite, he’s intuitive and clever, and he knows this. But he’s not an intellectual or a philosopher. While Stu embraces the concept of the cosmically unknown with bony open arms, Paul tries not to think about it too much. He watches as John laughs at something Stu comments, and he bites his lower lip.

“What do you think, Paul?”

Paul is almost too frustrated to realize that John asked him a question, and is quickly snapped back into reality, somewhat caught off guard.

“I...” he begins, then realizes he’s not really sure how to answer. “Think of...

what?”

“You know,” John gestures grandly with his hands, a deformed smirk twitching across his poorly illuminated features. “What happens after you kick the bucket.”

His shoulders slump visibly, though he fights to keep his voice and facial expression steady and confident. “Oh, well... I don’t know. How would I know? I’d like there to be an afterlife, but... I don’t know.”

“We’re still young,” Stu murmurs; he sounds lax as ever, and yet there’s a shadow to his voice. Something eerie and foreboding. “It’ll be a while before you lads find out, eh?”

The room seems to grow colder; even John is visibly withered, and his smile falters.

“Well, who knows,” he cackles weakly. “We don’t know what life could throw our way... tomorrow one of us could get shot. We don’t know.”

“We don’t know,” Stuart repeats thoughtfully. That seemed to be the phrase tonight. A silence settles in, almost as uncomfortable as the slight chill.

“I have an idea,” George finally chimes in. His tone is slow and delivery quiet, childish and yet somehow fitting. Paul cocks an eyebrow.

Like Paul, George doesn’t exhibit any particular affinity for existentialism, but despite his youth he displays a quiet kind of spirituality that nobody can quite decipher. 

“Say, perhaps, if one of us were to die,” George continues. “he could come back and let the rest of us know if there’s another side.”

Paul frowns. “What if there is another side, but no way to come back here to tell us about it?” 

George just stares at him with a cocky little grin. “We’ll just cross that bridge when we get there, won’t we?”

“That’s the spirit, Geo,” John breaks into uproarious enthusiasm. “So who will be our lucky volunteer?”

That’s another thing, Paul thinks. Of course they want to find out what happens, but none of them really want to die. Especially not at this age. 

“I guess... whoever would be the first to go,” Paul mutters, audibly disheartened by the idea. It could be any of them. It could be him. It could be...

Stuart catches his eye. Through the thick lenses of his glasses, his piercing gaze seems to strike through Paul with the ease of a freshly sharpened blade. It’s like the haze from his drink is gone all of a sudden, and he is completely and utterly lucid in maintaining his eye contact with Paul. The younger feels his fingers furl into the fold of his palm.

What does this mean? Before Paul can make any sense of it, Stu slowly blinks and then turns his head away, back towards John, who nods calmly. “It’s a promise then,” the guitarist announces. “Whichever one of us goes first.”

Everyone else nods and murmurs in agreement. Stu is no longer looking at him, but Paul still feels that unease, that feeling of being peered into. 

By then, he already knew. It was going to be Stuart, no matter what. He doesn’t know when or why or how, only that it is and that that is final. Stuart snakes his fingers around the neck of the partially-drank bottle and brings the poison to his lips. Paul grimaces; the revelation will haunt him for a long time coming.


End file.
